And quite understandably so, too.
“He’s your cousin,” I said. “I’m sure you love him. But he can’t be allowed to carry on the way he does. It’s one thing when he tries to push me into the corner of the sofa and paw me. I can take care of myself, and I have people around me who’ll come to my rescue. It’s altogether different when he does it to the maids. They can’t really say no. Not if they aren’t willing to risk their livelihood in the process.”
Constance nodded. “And Nellie’s so young. And also so very pretty. I’m honestly surprised that Geoffrey hasn’t already begun his offensive, but you know it’s just a matter of time.”
Indeed. “At least she knows now that it’s coming, and she can decide for herself what she wants to do about it when it does.”
“It’s an automatic dismissal either way if Aunt Effie finds out,” Constance said. “You know she wouldn’t keep a maid on after she’d dallied with Geoffrey, so it’s a case of damned if you do, damned if you don’t, really.”
Yes, of course it was. No good options at all.
“I thought about asking her about Lydia Morrison,” I said, “and whether anyone has heard from her, but if Nellie’s only been here a month, she wouldn’t know Lydia Morrison to look at, would she?”
Constance shook her head. “Morrison was before her time. I suppose one of us shall have to inquire of Mrs. Frobisher tomorrow.”
I supposed so. The whole convoluted mess was getting on my nerves, and the fact that no one knew where Lydia Morrison was, was frustrating.
Up until recently, Morrison had been the late Lady Peckham’s maid at the Dower House, while Margaret Hughes had been her counterpart at Sutherland Hall. Before that, though, while Crispin and Constance (and Christopher and I) had been babies, it had been the opposite. Back then, Morrison worked for Aunt Charlotte, while Hughes worked for Constance’s mother. The two gentlewomen had been old friends, and at some point while their children were infants, they had decided to switch maids. Morrison had ended up at the Dower House with Constance’s mother and Hughes had come to Sutherland to work for Aunt Charlotte. And so it had been for more than twenty years.
Until that awful weekend at Sutherland Hall this past April, when Morrison had received a phone call from persons unknown. The next morning she had been gone. No one had seen or heard from her since. And now Hughes was dead—the victim of a botched mugging in a Bristol alley—and Morrison was still nowhere to be found, and I was beginning to be irritated. A grown woman of fifty-odd shouldn’t be able to just vanish into the ether like that.
“Of course not,” Constance agreed, “but short of asking Mrs. Frobisher, I don’t know what to do about it. Why don’t we start there? Tomorrow?”
I nodded. It certainly seemed like a good enough place to start.
“You should have let Francis know about your German friend before this evening, Pippa,” Constance said. There was nothing particularly accusing in her voice, but I squirmed guiltily anyway.
“I understand why you would say that, Constance. And I agree that what happened downstairs was not ideal…”
“Hardly,” Constance said.
“But if we had told him—and everyone else—about Wolfgang last night, Francis would have spent last night and all of today fretting about it. He would have driven you mad, and you know it.”
“Don’t you mean that he would have drivenyoumad?” Constance wanted to know. She flicked a glance at me from where she was sitting on the edge of the bed, hands tidily folded in her lap.
I made a face. “That too, certainly. Although to be honest, I thought there was a chance you already knew.”
Christopher had rung up Crispin the same evening Wolfgang had appeared in our lives. It wouldn’t have been surprising if he had let his parents in on the news, too.
“No,” Constance answered when I said as much. “No one has said a word to us about your German suitor. Not Christopher, nor Lord St George, nor his father.”
I arched my brows. “He’s not my suitor, you know. Just a friend, or more accurately, a distant relative.”
“So Christopher said,” Constance nodded. “Does that mean you’re German nobility, too?”
I shook my head. “Lord, no. My mother shocked everyone when she ran off to the Continent and married a commoner. My father was nobody. If I’m related to Wolfgang at all, it’s on the distaff side of the family, and several times removed.”
Constance made a little humming noise. “So Lord St George…” Her voice tilted up at the end, making it a question.
“You’re practically married to Francis,” I told her crossly. “You’re soon to be Crispin’s cousin by marriage. On both sides of the family, since you’re Laetitia’s cousin, too. You can call him by his given name.”
She gave me a look. “So can you, but I don’t see you doing it.”
“That’s different. And he has known about Wolfgang since the day we met him. Christopher wasted no time in ringing him up; God knows why.”
Constance muttered something, but I ignored it. “It was when he insulted Wolfgang—and by extension, me—that I suggested he should propose to Laetitia. I thought he might have whinged to his father about it, and that Uncle Harold may have included it in the happy news when he called his brother and sister-in-law to let them know that Crispin is engaged.”
“No,” Constance said. “If His Grace mentioned anything about theGrafvon Natterdorff to Roslyn and Herbert, neither of them said anything to Francis or me about it.”
